The Fallen
by Sergeant Turtle
Summary: Arthur knew he shouldn't have survived that crash. There was just no way, not without serious injuries and most likely coma or death. It was as if he had a guardian angel looking after him… Several days later, Martin Crieff turns up at the airfield, confused and unwell. But… Martin's dead – isn't he? Rated T in case.
1. One

**Hello there. So, I decided I didn't want to leave it at _The Feather._ Sorry. Hope this is still good, though! **

**Don't own nothin'.**

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><p><span>One<span>

Arthur could see the ground coming up as Douglas desperately tried to right the plane. It didn't look very friendly. And his safety belt was stuck. This wasn't going to end well.

It was also going to hurt.

Strange, he thought, usually problems occurred on the job, not when they were on their way home. But mechanical failure had finally caught up with them, it seemed.

This was really going to hurt. Arthur frantically tried to unstick his safety belt, but it stayed stubbornly half-drawn. The realisation struck him hard.

He was going to die today. He didn't want to die. He was only thirty. He hadn't even moved out of home yet. And Mum would miss him terribly.

The plane slammed into the runway, and Arthur jolted forward – but something caught him as he curled into a ball and kept him in his seat. He heard someone call his name, but it didn't sound like Douglas. Hang on – they were the only two on board…

Then everything went dark.

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><p>Arthur could hear the wailing of the fire trucks and the shouts of the rescue team as they cut open the outside door. How had he even survived?<p>

_'Hold on, Arthur, they're almost through.'_

There was that voice again. He had to be hearing things. It sounded so familiar… no it had to be. Just his own mind messing with him. A clang of metal heralded the arrival of rescue, and the voice spoke again.

'_You'll be alright now, Arthur. They'll look after you.'_

A cool breeze stroked his hair, and the voice didn't return. That voice that sounded so familiar. Wait – it sounded like – no. impossible.

_Stop imagining things, Arthur Shappey. Heroes can't help people if they're dead._

Then he was being lifted onto a stretcher, and there was Douglas' voice, asking if he was okay, and he wanted to answer, but his head really _hurt…_

There was a prick in his arm, and he drifted into sleep.

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><p>Carolyn watched the rise and fall of Arthur's chest as he slept soundly in the hospital bed. The staff had told her that he only had a mild concussion and a badly sprained wrist, along with a few grazes and bruises.<p>

It could have been so much worse. Douglas, sitting reading in the next bed, had sustained several cracked ribs – and he'd been strapped firmly in his seat. It was a miracle Arthur was alive at all, let alone expected to make a full recovery.

When Arthur had regained consciousness several hours earlier, he had been mumbling something about voices and angels; she had asked him about it, and he had told her about the mysterious force that had kept him in his seat and the voice that had helped him stay awake until rescue arrived. Carolyn had been inclined to disbelieve him, except it was a well-known fact that Arthur was _always_ blindingly honest. Boy didn't have a storytelling bone in his body.

So what had happened in that crash?

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><p><em>Rain. It was raining. Wet. Soaked to the skin. Shirt and jeans not much protection from the storm.<em>

_Where was he?_

_Planes. Huts. Oh. The airfield._

_He dragged himself to his feet – everything hurt, why was that?_

_Oh. Yes. Falling always hurt. Falling off a ladder, falling off a log, falling from the sky. Sky, fly, why, why was his head spinning?_

_Memory led him to a particular portacabin, its door unlocked during the day. Nobody was there; well, they wouldn't be, couldn't fly with their plane in that state._

_Couldn't fly, couldn't fly, can't fly, can't remember how, why, when._

_Head hurts, neck hurts, arms hurt, legs hurt, everything hurts._

_Coughing now. Sick? Sick not a good thing. Don't want to be sick._

_Room whirling. Stumbling to an armchair. Curling up. Feeling awful. Head heavy, skin too warm, aching all over._

_Blackness._


	2. Two

**Hello, chaps! Another chapter, and I would really appreciate some more reviews!**

**John Finnemore is the owner of Cabin Pressure. I am not John Finnemore. Therefore I am not the owner of Cabin Pressure.**

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><p>Arthur yelped in pain as he inadvertently put pressure on his wrist. 'Ow! I've got to stop doing that, or it'll never get better!'<p>

'Lucky it's not your dominant hand, Arthur,' mused Douglas, 'then you'd have real trouble.' He winced as he got into the car – his ribs were still healing, and bending down caused a small amount of pain. To be honest, even though neither he nor Arthur would be flying for a few weeks, he was very glad they were out of the hospital already. 'So where are we going, Carolyn?'

'Well, before we go home – don't give me that look, you're staying with us until you're healed enough to look after yourself – we're going to the airfield to see how the repairs are getting on and to fetch some things from the portacabin.'

'Righto.'

Carolyn pulled into the road and they drove toward Fitton, Douglas humming show tunes in the back while Arthur roped him into playing "yellow car" and Carolyn just sighed indulgently and let them have their fun. Arthur was acting like himself for the first time since the crash, and she wasn't going to stop him.

It was moments like these, thought Douglas, when they were all together and just acting like they usually did, that he always thought of Martin. He tried to think of the good moments – Martin with a lemon taped to his cap, Martin explaining the mechanics of flight to Arthur, Martin's face when he had a brilliant idea out of the blue (a rare occasion at the best of times; ideas were more Douglas' forte) – but every time, all he would end up remembering were memories of a limp hand losing grip on his, and the light going out of the Captain's gaze as he grew cold and still.

Having a friend die in his arms was something Douglas hoped he'd never experience again. He sighed and looked out the window, humming _You're A Good Man, Charlie Brown_.

'Yellow car!'

'Oh, well done, Arthur, I didn't see that one.'

'Mum, how long till we get there?'

'Not long, dear.'

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><p><em>He can hear the sound of a car stopping. He really should hide, but his body feels like lead and his head really aches. He's been here for a few days – how many exactly, he's not sure. The throbbing in his brain makes it hard to think.<em>

_He knows he really should find somewhere to hide._

_But sleep sounds so good right now…_

_No, no sleeping! If he sleeps he might not wake up again._

_There's the door opening. Should be hiding._

_So tired…_

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><p>When the three of them stepped into the portacabin, it was Arthur who regained his voice first. 'Uh, chaps? Is anyone else seeing what I'm seeing?' When there was no answer, naturally, he panicked. 'Oh, no. Does that mean I'm dead? Am I a ghost now too?'<p>

Douglas, recovering slowly from the shock, stepped forward and hesitantly laid a hand on the arm of the chair's occupant. Bleary blue-green eyes opened at the touch, followed by a hoarse whisper. 'D-Douglas?'

'Martin? How on earth…?'

'Fell from the sky, Douglas…'

Carolyn's heart rate had returned to normal, and her shock was quickly mixing with confusion and anger, but there was no mistaking the slight huskiness in her voice. 'Young man, you have a lot of explaining to do. You were six feet under last time I checked, so how is it that you're sitting in an armchair in front of me? Start talking.'

'Uh… 'll try my best.. don't feel so good…' Martin replied, followed by a harsh bout of coughing. Carolyn's gaze instantly softened, worry creeping in. 'Not now, Martin. You're in no fit state to do anything at this point in time. Was it… raining… when you – for want of a better word – landed?'

'Y-yes…'

'And you've been here since then?'

'Yes.'

'Last time it rained was Thursday,' Arthur piped up suddenly.

'Arthur, dear, you were inside, not to mention asleep, how did you know?'

'People in the ward were talking about the rain.'

'Right. Douglas, he's been here for four days.'

'Which means he's been wet, cold and starving – no wonder you're sick, Martin.' Douglas gently felt the younger man's forehead. 'Dear lord, you're burning up. Carolyn, we need to get Martin somewhere safe where we can help him. Can you bring the car up as close as possible? I'm going to have to carry him, but I shouldn't really be doing that with my ribs the way they are, so the shorter the commute the better. Arthur, I need you to stand outside the door and make sure nobody's around.'

'Why?'

'One – in case you've forgotten, Martin's got wings, and two – he's supposed to be dead.'

'Oh. Right. Okay.'

'Before you do that, there's a blanket in that white cupboard up the back, can you get it for me?

Arthur scampered off, returning with a patched green wool blanket, before darting secret-agent style out the door to act as lookout. Douglas wrapped Martin carefully in the warm fabric, and, at Arthur's all-clear, gingerly picked the younger man up – _he shouldn't be this light_ – and carried him out to the car. With Carolyn's help, he managed to manoeuvre both himself and Martin into the back so the smaller man could curl up on the seat next to Douglas, the First Officer's hand staying in contact with the thready, erratic pulse in the carotid artery.

He could see Carolyn's worried glances in the rear-view mirror the entire trip, but it was Arthur who asked the question that ate away at the hard shells the others had built for themselves over the past months. 'He's not gonna die again. Skip's gonna be okay… isn't he?'

'I don't know, Arthur. I don't know.'


	3. Three

**Hello, chaps. This was going to be the last chapter, but it turned out longer than I expected, so there will be an epilogue after this, where all will be explained.**

**Not an owner of anythin'.**

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><p><span>Three<span>

Carolyn stood in the doorway of the guest room, watching Douglas as he dug into his reserves of medical training to try to bring down Martin's raging fever. Arthur was hovering in the corner, torn between wanting to help and the urge to run away, fall to his knees beside his bed, and pray that Skip would be alright.

_He needs something to do,_ _something to distract him._ 'Arthur, dear,' she whispered, afraid of breaking the dead silence. Her son's head whipped around and Carolyn caught sight of the tears threatening to spill. She beckoned to him, and he shuffled over to the door, hopelessness radiating from every inch of him. Replying to Douglas' nod with a near invisible one of her own, Carolyn wrapped an arm around her distraught son and led him gently out of the room.

The First Officer watched them go, before turning back to his patient. Martin's pale face was flushed with fever, and he slept fitfully, the nightmares that always came hand-in-hand with his illnesses keeping up their relentless attack. Apart from the occasional coughing fits, he was completely limp and unresponsive.

Nobody slept much that night. Douglas and Carolyn took turns sitting with Martin, while Arthur mostly lay in bed staring at the blue-painted ceiling.

_Please let Skip be okay. We only just got him back._

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><p>'Isn't there anything else we can do, Douglas?'<p>

'We can't take a dead man to a hospital, Carolyn, and even if we could I have no idea how to hide his wings. If Martin were conscious enough to tell me how _he_ does it, I'd ask him – but he's not, so I can't. I'm sorry – we're just going to have to keep up the damp cloths and ice packs until he's lucid enough to be given medication or until his fever breaks.'

There was a silence.

'I'm still getting used to the fact that he's here.'

'I know.'

'He _died_, Carolyn. I held him as the life left his body, I saw the light go out behind his eyes!' Douglas let his head fall into his hands, exhausted. 'My friend has just returned from the dead and I don't know how, why, _or_ what to think.'

'Douglas, you're not thinking straight, you need to sleep.'

'I can't.'

Douglas reached out and curled his fingers around Martin's – _how can his forehead be burning when his hands are like ice_ – as if trying to reassure himself that the younger man wouldn't suddenly vanish, that it wasn't just some overlong, overcomplicated dream. 'As much as I maintain that I am not a sentimental old fool, Martin is like my brother, almost a son in a way, and when he died in my arms it tore me apart. I've been given a chance to heal – and perhaps to redeem myself – by saving his life now. I have to do this. He's not dying on me again.'

Carolyn sighed reflectively, and to her own surprise found herself smiling a little. 'Well, if there's anything I've learned running MJN, it's that if anyone can get Martin out of a jam, it's you.' She stood, knees protesting, and left the room, pausing at the door to say one last thing. 'You've never let him down before, Douglas – and I highly doubt you ever will.'

The door closed, and Douglas settled back in his chair, one hand still linked with Martin's. Unsurprisingly, his worn out mind decided that yes, he _did_ need sleep, and he dozed off quickly.

Through the haze of unconsciousness, Martin's fingers curled tighter around his friend's.

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><p>Carolyn stood up from the sofa, where she had unknowingly fallen asleep, and went to check on Martin (and by extension Douglas). Softening her step so as not to wake the snoozing First Officer, she crossed to the bed and laid a gentle hand on the sick man's forehead. Her heart leapt as she felt the slight dampness of sweat along with a noticeable drop in temperature.<p>

_Fever's broken. Thank heavens._

Douglas gave vent to an undignified snorting sound as he woke with a start, before yawning widely and rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Carolyn?' He noticed her smiling, looked between her and Martin, and let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. 'Oh, thank god. Better fetch Arthur – he'll want to know everything's okay.'

While Carolyn went to wake her son, Douglas opened the curtains to let in the early morning sunlight.

Martin's eyelids fluttered before blinking open.

'Douglas?'

'Good morning, Sir. Feeling better?'

The ginger-haired captain coughed several times before answering, his voice still a hoarse whisper. 'A bit… You look dead on your feet,' Martin's freckled forehead wrinkled as he squinted up at Douglas. 'Have you been up all night?'

'Never been able to hide anything from you, have I, Captain?'

'Why on _earth_ were you up all night?'

'Someone had to doctor you, Martin, and I'm the one with medical training.'

There was a silence while the older man bustled about, tidying up. Things unspoken hung in the air, sentiments Douglas wasn't sure how to put into words.

_I couldn't let you die again._

_You're my friend, my best friend._

_I couldn't sleep without knowing you were okay. None of us could._

Carolyn returned, followed by Arthur, both visibly relieved that Martin was awake. Arthur – as was his way – effusively so, while Carolyn was more reserved, but smiling nonetheless.

'Skipper! You're okay! I'm _really_ glad you woke up 'cause your fever was _really_ bad and Douglas was _really_ worried and that _always_ means something _awful's_ gonna happen and –'

'Arthur, Arthur, don't talk the poor man's ears off, he's only just regained consciousness.'

'Sorry, Mum. Sorry, Skip – but you're back for good now! Right?'

'Well… I guess I am.'


	4. Epilogue

**Last chapter! Thanks for reading! Martin's adventures are not over yet, though, and part three of the Angel Circuit will be up once I've got my final TMNT fic back on track.**

**Don't own. Don't ask.**

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><p><span>Epilogue<span>

A late-afternoon storm blustered outside, sending stray cats running for cover, but the inhabitants of the Knapp-Shappey residence simply curled up on the sofas, stoked the fire, and let the wind howl. The second _Hobbit_ movie was in the DVD player, but no one was really watching, listening instead to Martin, who'd managed to manipulate Douglas to let him move from the bed to the comfortable armchair.

'I'd let myself get too close to people, too embedded in my normal life. I don't know why we're not allowed, but I know it's partly because of the danger. So I died. No one's really sure how it works. It just happens.'

Arthur chewed his lip reflectively. 'But Skip – if you died, why did you come back?'

Martin looked sideways at Douglas, and the older man remembered an event from three months ago…

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><p><em>Douglas stared down the bottle of whiskey on the sideboard.<em>

I can't do it I can't do it I can't do it…

I _shouldn't _do it…

_His hand swept the bottle up and filled the small glass on the table in front of him. Damn it. Damn life and the universe and just everything. He'd been sober for years; one drink wasn't going to change it. Ignoring the voice at the back of his head – the one that always sounded annoyingly like Martin – he lifted the glass to take a swig._

_There was a crash from the hall, and he swore under his breath before replacing the glass and jumping to his feet._

_Somehow a photo frame had fallen from the wall, and though luckily it hadn't broken, it had torn the hook out of the wood. He picked it up, dusting it off, and turned it over._

_A lump caught in his throat as he saw the subject of the photo. It was one Arthur had taken during an unusual trip to Tunisia, while they were waiting for Carolyn to return with a team of Scottish cricketers. The picture showed GERTI's flight deck with the Saharan sun and sand visible through the windows. Douglas had his sleeves rolled up against the heat that even the air-conditioning couldn't fight, congenially chatting with Martin, who was leaning back in his chair with his hat perched jauntily on his ginger curls. He was laughing at something Douglas had said, and looked relaxed for the first time in ages. The seeds of friendship were being sown early on, to eventually grow strong._

_Except now Martin was dead, leaving Douglas without that teasing camaraderie he'd come to rely on._

_Returning to the sofa, he picked up the glass and poured the whisky down the sink._

_Martin would be horrified at a relapse, anyway._

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><p>Carolyn and Arthur were silent as Douglas finished his story. "So it was you, Martin. You went all <em>Poltergeist<em> and knocked down that frame to distract me.'

'Yes.'

'… Thank you.'

Arthur, of course, still didn't understand. "I still don't understand.'

'Coming back is a punishment, Arthur. An exile. I was supposed to distance myself in life and not interfere in death. Three interference attempts and you're returned to earth as a Fallen.'

'Three? But… Carolyn, you haven't had any accidents lately… have you?'

'No,' she replied, 'but I had a near miss.'

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><p><em>It was late, she was tired, and there was a long flight to Cannes tomorrow with a CFO. She couldn't <em>stand_ CFOs. Always so terribly self-important, it seemed._

_Suddenly, the left wheel hit a patch of black ice, and before she could think, the car skidded out of control. She tried to wrestle it back to the centre of the road, but nothing seemed to be working and she was heading for a guard rail._

_Something yanked the wheel in the opposite direction, and the car slewed sideways, friction bringing it to a sudden stop, ending up a spray of snow at the edge of the road._

_Carolyn sat back in her seat, heart thumping wildly. So close._

_So close._

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><p>'Wouldn't have survived if you hadn't taken the wheel, Martin.'<p>

'I debated saying "I have control" – decided against it,' replied the ginger-haired pilot, and Carolyn smiled despite herself.

'And then you saved me in the plane crash, Skip?'

'Yes, Arthur. I did.'

'I thought the voice from nowhere sounded familiar. And it was, 'cause it was you!'

'You risked exile, from wherever it is angels go in their spare time, for us?' Douglas cut in.

''Course I did. You're the closest to family I've got.'

There was a contented silence.

'Well, Martin… Martin?'

Martin didn't reply, having curled up in the armchair and subsequently fallen asleep. Douglas chuckled. 'Doesn't sound like a bad idea, actually,' he yawned, before putting his feet up on the coffee table and closing his eyes. Arthur nestled his head on his mother's shoulder, and soon they were all dozing, while the movie continued to play to the end and the storm raged outside.

_"I am fire! I am _death!_'_

_"…What have we done?"_


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